Was there anything at all in those locked rooms of her aunt’s mind? Were they fully furnished and only a little dusty and cobwebby and in need of an airing, or were they stark vacancy except, perhaps, for a cockroach or so or the gnawing of a rat? What was the mental equivalent of a rat’s gnawing? The image was going astray. One cannot successfully argue with a drunken man. Wood, who was standing at the edge of a raised platform, anxiously waving his hand to him. Every one took him for the millionaire, and he had lost his head about me. "Who knows but this key may open a golden lock one of these days?" And, picking it up, he thrust it into his pocket.
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